Runaway Baby
by The Sweet-Toothed Thief
Summary: Juliet was determined to prove - to her sister and the rest of London - that she was tough. But when she finds herself too deep in a hole of her own creation, she consults the only person who can pull her back out again.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**A/N: My first Sherlock fanfiction story! I will admit, it was a bit daunting to try and portray Sherlock's… unique… character, but I think I did alright. I haven't quite grasped the concept of a 'Mary Sue', but I don't think my OC is – whatever **_**that **_**is. And they're not going to hook up by the fifth chapter, because – let's face it – it's going to take more than a pretty face and some intelligent words for Sherlock to fall head over heels. And even when he does, it won't be sudden and it sure as heck won't be conventional.**

…

**PROLOGUE**

"_I'm sorry!" _

_A tall girl stormed down the stairs, her dark hair swaying with every hurried footstep. Her eyebrows were furrowed angrily, and her eyes were dark grey and thunderous. Her pale, freckled hand was grasping a handful of the skirt of her gray dress – so as not to trip. At the top of the staircase, a smaller girl appeared. Her tear-stained cheeks were flushed red and she was gasping for breath._

"_Sissy, I'm sorry!" she cried. Her eyes and dress were of the same grey, and her curly hair of the same dark brown._

_The taller girl, the dark-haired one, skipped the last three steps and landed nimbly on the balls of her feet. She whipped around and looked up at her younger sister._

"_What?" she snapped waspishly._

"_I'm sorry, really!" she knelt down, but did not descend from her place at the top step. There seemed to be some sort of invisible barrier – preventing her from walking down those few steps and comforting the taller girl. There was nothing she could do. The damage was irreparable. "I didn't mean to – I'll – I'll do your chores for a month, but please – " _

"_Chores?" the older girl laughed incredulously, mirthlessly. "You think I care about chores? You really are stuck in that – that bubble of yours, aren't you? You have no – no bloody idea – " she took a deep breath. "I can't take any more of this place."_

_Despite her words, she did not move. Neither did her sister. They stared at each other, one set of eyes filled with anger and the other with tears. There was a long stretch of silence, and neither seemed willing to break it._

_Until the younger girl said, with a voice soft and barely audible from the crying, "Don't leave."_

_And that was enough. The taller girl shook her head – her chin only trembling a little – and turned on her heel._

_The front door slammed a few moments later._

…


	2. Chapter I

Running.

That's all she ever did; it was all she could imagine herself doing.

No matter how many fake identities or cross-country moves she assumed or underwent, she couldn't seem to stay in one place for very long. Whether it be because of the people she had "wronged" and offended, or simply because she got bored, it happened. And it was almost second nature- like pushing her hair out of her eyes or sniffing when her nose was runny. It wasn't involuntary, like breathing, because that just sounded pretentious, didn't it?

She was running now. Physically. And she was burning out- a rare occurrence, but she had been going for so long. Her boot-clad feet slammed against the pavement and her breathing was ragged, strained. She was almost totally out of commission.

She could still hear the heavy footsteps of Jacques' goons thudding behind her. She knew it was them; they were dressed casually, but rock band t-shirts and skinny jeans didn't hide their familiar build and predatory gleam.

Little puffs of visible air were misting in front of her with each running step she took. Her apartment building was just there, just a little farther. A flying projectile hit the brick wall beside her and shot up an upwelling of brick dust, and her eyes widened as she started running in an erratic zig-zag pattern to avoid taking a bullet to the back.

She wanted to taunt them, but she needed all of her air at that moment.

Eternity seemed to slow her progress, but she pulled through in less time than she had started and hopped on the first staircase to reach her third-story apartment.

The goons were gaining. She needed time.

With a war cry, she bodily slammed the fire extinguisher off of the shuttered wall on the first landing. She picked it up and threw it down the stairs behind her with all her might. It collided with a satisfyingly loud, cracking smack right on the nose of goon number one. The other still hadn't reached the stairs. She grinned and continued on up.

After reaching her floor, she dug the key out of her pocket, and unlocked the fourth green door on the right. It was opened, shut, locked and barricaded just as goon number two reached the third-story landing.

Quickly, she grabbed her conspicuous black duffle off of the coffee table and scurried away to the kitchen, grabbing an apple. Then, she zipped to her bedroom, jumping agilely over the couch to do so.

There, she opened the window and slipped her trusty pocketknife out, cutting away a large space in the netting that stretched across the pane. Throwing the screen to the side, she grabbed up her duffle and slid it around her shoulder before wiggling out and climbing down. As soon as both of her feet touched the ground, she was gone faster than she had arrived.

Moving cross-country wouldn't do this time; she'd overstepped her careful boundaries. Jacques wouldn't be looking to capture her anymore. He just wanted her dead. And when her life was actually on the line with no negotiation to be made, that was when things got less playful. It wasn't a tango anymore, and that both saddened her and irked her. Jacques had been fun; now, he was very clearly sick of her games.

It was time to flee the country, something she was simultaneously loathing and working herself up on the brink of insane excitement for. Plane tickets were expensive, but that was no matter. She could speak Spanish and French well enough, but she preferred to go somewhere that everyone spoke English.

England it was. Oh, the things she could get up to there... and she'd always wanted to visit London one day- to go and visit Sissy...

With a smirk, she caught a bus to the airport.

She would have to be careful; it wasn't just Jacques after her, after all. The CIA hated her just as much, if not more than they did Sissy. And it was certainly well-earned.

She would cherish the look of surprise on Sissy's face when she came knocking.

...

"Kate," Irene Adler called. Her slim body was hidden under thousands of sudsy bubbles. There was a bath pillow cushioning her head and she was lazily scrolling through her camera phone, careful to hold it away from the water. It could've been a hazard, but the casing was waterproof anyway.

Her red-headed assistant came clicking into the doorway of the bathroom, an eyebrow quirked.

"Yes?"

"There's someone at the door," Irene murmured, preoccupied.

Kate blinked. "Were you expecting anyone?"

Irene smiled up at her. "No, but would you mind seeing who it is?"

Kate nodded and hurried away. Irene sighed and set her phone down on the small table to the left of her tub, then stood and emptied it. Grabbing a towel and a silk robe, she disappeared into her closet.

Kate clicked into the entrance hall in seconds. There, she peered at the security camera-feed from the front step.

It was a girl, no more than maybe twenty-five or twenty-six. Her hair was long, wavy and dark, pulled back into a messy plait, and her eyes were what seemed to be a light grey. She was familiar in a way that Kate couldn't name. The camera feed wasn't all that clear, but Kate could make out the black, mid thigh-length sweater, grey leggings, and black boots that reached the girl's calves. There was a black duffle around her shoulders. She was nodding along to music that wasn't present; there were no buds in her ears or headphones and no Bluetooth piece.

Curious, Kate pressed the button that allowed her to be heard.

"Hello?"

The girl stopped nodding and grinned. "Hi! I'm here to see Irene."

Kate quirked an eyebrow. "Have you made an appointment?" Even though she already knew the girl hadn't; Irene would've remembered.

"Oh, no," the girl laughed. "No, Irene's family of mine."

"Family?" Kate deadpanned.

"Yup," she popped the 'p'.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name..." Kate trailed off, her eyebrow still high on her forehead.

"Juliet," said the girl, grinning still. "Juliet Adler."

Kate blinked, taking her finger off the button for a moment. Then, she used the microphone again.

"I'm sorry," Kate said haltingly. "I have to speak with Irene. Would you mind waiting there for a moment?"

The girl's grin dropped quickly, and she took on a more solemn expression, shaking her head. If Kate didn't know any better, she'd say the look was mocking. Shaking her head, she dashed up the stairs.

Juliet dropped the kicked-puppy look after a few seconds, knowing whoever the disembodied voice belonged to had gone in search of Sissy.

Appointment? That intrigued her.

Surely, Irene hadn't become a doctor of some sort? She snorted. Not very likely, if she thought about it, because this house - more like a manor - was quite obviously not a hospital or office building. And there was always the absurdity of clever Irene becoming a simple doctor. She shook her head and resolved to ask when she saw her.

The door opened quite suddenly. Juliet didn't flinch or jump, however. She just looked on, grinning.

Kate was feeling faint. Never had Irene answered the door herself.

"Sissy!" Juliet cheered. "Nice of you to come down. Sorry if I interrupted your bath."

To her credit, Irene was only wide-eyed for a moment. She gestured for Juliet to come in, and then closed the door behind the grinning girl.

"I was just about to get out anyway," Irene sighed warily.

Kate observe the scene with calculating eyes. She could see the resemblance between the two, the most obvious being their coloring. Both had dark hair and greyish eyes, but Irene's features were much sharper. Juliet was baby-faced; her features were soft and carefree. Where Irene's eyes were sharp and piercing in their intensity, Juliet's were cloudy and swirly and doe-like. Kate couldn't easily gauge Juliet's body structure because of the loose sweater she wore, but she and Irene were both about the same height.

"So..." Juliet drawled. Her accent was American, but subtly. Kate guessed she was from somewhere in the middle of the East coast. "I was wondering if I could crash here for a while? Got myself in a bit of a situation in the states." Well. That confirmed that.

"A bit of a situation," Irene repeated, her tone dubious. The older woman turned on her heel and headed up the staircase. Juliet was right on her heels, her black duffle swinging behind her. Kate followed uncertainly. She'd never seen Irene act in a way that didn't exude superiority, sex, and power. At that moment, she was confused, unsure; but she still at least walked with confidence and grace.

"Yeah..." Juliet sighed. "Y'know. Killers. It was fun at first, but then they actively began seeking me out like hitmen."

Irene made a noise that denoted both irritation and amusement. "Still a mere thief, then?"

Juliet grinned. "I told you- I'm not a thief. I borrow. And I'm hella good at it, if I say so myself."

They had reached the sitting room. Irene ran a hand through her hair and sat down in her armchair. Juliet flopped down on the couch. Kate, realizing this was a matter between siblings, hurried away to preoccupy herself with something else.

"You can stay," Irene's mouth quirked downward at the corners. "But I do have clients to entertain; I can't have you in the way, Juliet."

Juliet grinned. "I can be quiet. If you don't mind me asking, just what is it that you do? If you do mind me asking, answer anyway, because I'm curious."

Irene ignored the impatience and smirked at the mention of her occupation. "I'm a dominatrix."

Juliet stared at her for a long moment. Then, her nose scrunched up. "So... when that lady downstairs asked me if I had an appointment..."

Irene nodded, her eyes twinkling in amusement. "She thought you might have been one of my clients."

"Oh." The younger woman sniffed. "Nasty."

Irene rolled her eyes. "I don't engage in sexual intercourse with my clients, Juliet. I just punish them."

"Alright, okay," Juliet grimaced and held up both hands, waving them around. "Spare me the details, Ms. Spanky. I just had breakfast."

Irene chuckled. The next few moments, she just stared at her younger sister.

"How've you been?" Juliet murmured softly.

"Busy," Irene smiled. "Dreadfully busy."

"Why?"

Irene scoffed. "Because that's what happens when you run a business, Julie. You become busy."

Juliet frowned and twisted fully toward her sister on the couch, so that she could glare more effectively.

"Why do you have to be so condescending?"

"Why do you have to ask such stupid questions?"

"It wasn't stupid," Juliet said quickly, but surely. "I asked why you were busy, a legitimate inquiry; I'd imagine 'dominating', or whatever the verb form is for what you do, doesn't really demand for you to be busy. There's got to be something else, with all the other free time you have."

Irene's smile was full that time around. Even though she needn't be, Juliet was satisfied that Irene hadn't thought she'd gone stupid in the last year.

"Well," Irene began. "I'm not at liberty to say whatever I please on who I'm working with- or rather, who's working for me."

The way she put emphasis on 'for' made Juliet pause. If she had put emphasis on 'me', it could be safely assumed that Irene was the one in charge. But she hadn't; it was like someone was doing work 'for' her. This made more sense. Juliet frowned.

"What have you gotten yourself into, Sissy? Maybe I want in."

"Not with what I'm orchestrating."

"Oh," Juliet wrinkled her nose. "Does this have anything to do with your work?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Well, then." Juliet chewed her lip. "I kind of want to do something big. Y'know, to celebrate my arrival in London."

Irene rolled her eyes. "Be careful. This place is more different than you can imagine; you can't get away with certain things like you can in America."

"Sure about that?" Juliet grinned. "I might need help. You know I get bored when I have nothing nefarious to get up to."

Something in Irene's eyes flickered. Juliet noticed, but didn't react outwardly.

"Your acts of crime are very minor, Ju," Irene began slowly. Juliet frowned. "I'd hate to see you get hurt getting into something way over your head."

"Way over my head," Juliet repeated softy, her eyes crackling like soft thunderclouds. "I could manage it just fine. I've gotten up to things in the past year that you couldn't even fathom."

"I assure you, I could," Irene quipped back, amused. "You're young, Ju. You forget."

Juliet stood. "I'll show you," she grinned suddenly. "It'll be fun."

And with that, she scampered away, her head nodding to music that only she could hear.

"By the way!" her bubbly voice called from down the hallway. "I have a couple of things coming through the mail! Don't be alarmed if I'm out!"

Irene frowned lightly in worry. Juliet may have forgotten just how devious her older sister was, but the unpredictability and volatility of her younger sister had slipped Irene's mind. Happy and cheerful one second, and brooding and petulant the next. It would undoubtedly give her a headache at some point in the future.

She hoped Juliet would be careful. She might not be keen on showing it, but she was quite fond of her.

...

"Dear Moriarty,

As a celebration for my successful escape of the clutches of a wealthy gang in the US, I've decided to throw a celebratory theft spree.

I've gathered from an admittedly unreliable source that you are what they call a 'consultant criminal', and I am curious. My sister says I shouldn't be, but that just makes the notion more appealing, doesn't it?

If you help, you'll get fifty percent of the earnings I get from the pawned off goods.

Contact this number for more details: 0203-9831

With Many Bear Hugs and Marshmallows,

Juliet."

...

A week passed, and Juliet grew disheartened. She couldn't have pulled it all off herself; she needed resources. And if this Moriarty guy didn't really exist, how was she supposed to do it?

She pouted and dragged her feet around Irene's mansion all day. Kate provided interesting conversation for a while, but they had already reached their limit on safe topics to get into.

Irene really was busy. Whenever she had a client, Juliet holed herself up in the guest room given to her and blasted rock music in her ears so she wouldn't hear the sounds of the whip and the riding crop.

Then, on Saturday, her disposable phone rang. She grinned excitedly and snatched it up, pressing it to her ear.

"Hello!"

_"You've got one minute. Talk," _said a gruff, distinctly male voice.

Juliet rolled her eyes at the usual rudeness she encountered from these types. "It goes like this..."

...

So many things she had to do.

Irene didn't think she was adept at playing the game. She was intimately familiar with the game. She'd woken up every day in America on high-alert, making her first moves. Every minute of her life there could've been her last. Sleeping at a different place every night. Constantly glancing over her shoulder. It got exhausting- exhilarating, exciting, but exhausting. A breath of fresh air in England was just what she needed. Tedious, she thought it might have been.

A consultant criminal?

Decidedly not tedious.

And when Irene just so happened to mention him, Juliet was curious. And then she told her she couldn't handle it? She screamed and threw a lamp in outrage at the mirror in her room. It connected with the reflective surface with a loud crash and shattered it. Breathing hard with her wavy dark hair falling into her raging grey orbs, she remained in the position with her arm outstretched and her body leaning toward it.

"Juliet!" Kate's voice chimed on the other side of the door. "What are you doing in there?"

"Nothing!" Juliet exclaimed cheerfully. "I just dropped my lamp! I can clean it up!"

"Well, alright. Do try to keep quiet - Irene's got a client coming within the hour."

"Will do!"

Juliet heard Kate's footsteps fade away down the hall. Once she was gone, she began kicking around her empty duffle and cursing. She must've looked crazy, but she honestly didn't really care. She screamed and punched the walls and slapped the floor and threw an absolute fit. After a few long moments of this, her frustration wound down and she felt decidedly embarrassed that she had resorted to such a childish outlet for her anger. She was still stung, however, so she threw open her door and shouted down the hall.

"Kate!"

The redhead came sashaying up the stairs moments later. "Yes?"

"I'm going out soon," Juliet stated plainly, her breath still a little heavy.

"Care to share where?" Kate asked, smiling lightly at her rhyming sentence.

Juliet huffed. "To go and find a flat of my own."


	3. Chapter II

**A/N: I know, it's been a while. And I have no excuses…**

**BUT: Everyone's favorite consulting detective and his blogger will be making an appearance! Read on to find out what they're up to!**

…**..**

"_We need your – "_

"Three separate locations – a bank, a museum, and most recently, a jewelry store. You need help finding the burglar."

John looked up from the newspaper he'd been reading to watch the world's one and only consulting detective finish whatever sentence the caller had started. No doubt showing off with his prior knowledge of a case.

"No, I saw it on the telly." Pause. "Nope. We're on our way." Sherlock Holmes whipped around, throwing the cellphone to the side. "John! Get your coat."

"Robbery?"

"Obviously."

John shot up from his chair and hurried to keep up with his much longer-legged friend. With a practiced hand, Sherlock flagged down a taxi and they hopped in. As soon as the cabbie was instructed, they were zipping away toward the crime scene.

"Was that Lestrade?" John asked Sherlock.

"Yes." Sherlock stared out of the window. "I'm fairly sure this won't be as open and shut as last time. No case-cracking evidence – at least, none that they can find. But then, they always miss something."

They rode in relative silence for a while after that. Then, without warning, Sherlock launched into a rapid fire stream of words that John had to focus to keep up with.

"The first two jobs were flawless – no fingerprints, no sign of forced entry, and no leftover tools. This time, however, our cat burglar made one big mistake."

"What was it?"

"You're not even going to try?"

"Nope. What was the mistake?"

Sherlock sighed in faux disappointment. "The nighttime guard. The burglar must've gotten sloppy – the guard saw and needed to be disposed of. The only one who could attest to the identity of who took our missing item – a singular, teardrop sapphire – was found dead by the scene of the crime."

John frowned thoughtfully as the cab slowed to a stop in front of the jewelry store. He paid the cabbie and they both hopped out, weaving through the mess of police equipment and yellow tape that clogged the site. Detective Inspector Lestrade was waiting for them at the door to the _Diamonds, Diamonds, Diamonds! _Emporium. The taller of the two strode forward with brilliant purpose, barely stopping to give the silver-haired man so much as a "hey".

John offered a smile. "Hey, Greg."

Lestrade nodded in amicable greeting, before jerking a thumb in the direction Sherlock had just gone. "What's his deal? I usually get _at least_ a slight on my intelligence before he sweeps in solving things."

John shrugged. "It's been a while since somebody's come to him with a legit case. This is a welcome break from the body parts he's been bringing in from Bart's to put in the fridge."

Lestrade wrinkled his nose in mild disgust. Sherlock strode back into sight, his pale eyes sparkling with intense fascination and challenge.

"Well? I can't very well share my deductions with Anderson – he won't understand half of what I'm saying!" He disappeared back into the emporium.

John exchanged a look of familiar exasperation with the detective inspector before following wordlessly.

"What've you got on the guard?"

Sherlock turned toward him with an almost maniacal grin. "Something that will take us one step closer to identifying our thief!"

John glanced down at the body on the floor. "And that would b – "

Sherlock cut across him. "The guard – obviously inept at his job, judging by the magazines at the counter and the depressions in the chair by his post – left the emporium early this morning. Earlier than he should, but his watch is set to ten minutes before his shift ended – "

"How'd you know his shift hours?" Lestrade frowned.

"They're listed on a piece of paper behind the counter," Sherlock said, flatly. "Correlated the nametag on his uniform with a name on the list. Don't interrupt."

John rolled his eyes.

"Anyway - he's a habitual skiver. The fact that one magazine was left in the first place – within sight of the scene of the crime – means he left it behind. There are a stack of the same kind in his car – don't look surprised, I can tell his is the one parked on top of the curb – which means he came back to get the one he forgot. Our burglar and murderer, astutely aware of his skiving habits, was in the act just then. To avoid having a witness, the thief improvised – she didn't see the need for a weapon in the first place – and choked the man to death."

Sure enough, there were tell-tale, finger-shaped bruises around the man's neck. John grimaced.

"But we already knew he was strangled," Lestrade said. "Wait – she?"

"Yes, she," Sherlock grinned, holding up a single, long blonde hair. "The bruises were made by delicate hands, and – balance of probability – no male burglar would think it conventional to have hair this long. Neither would our burglar, but she is so obviously fond of it – the guard reeks of hair care products made for _women _– so, instead of going through the trouble of shearing it all off, she ties it up. In the struggle, it came loose, and here is the evidence." He tucked the strand into a plastic baggie. "Found on the inside of the lapel of the guards' jacket. Our burglar was either an effeminate man that uses women's hair products or – the more probable scenario – a woman."

"Bloody brilliant," Lestrade shook his head, taking the baggie from Sherlock and grinning. "DNA sample. We'll know who it is by this afternoon."

Sherlock nodded, frowning suddenly. "That was too easy. I thought this would be at least a seven."

John's shoulders sagged. "Back to experimenting, then?"

Sherlock's mouth quirked to the side. "To Bart's it is!" He strode out without another word.

"Aw, hell," John grumbled, following after him.

**oooOOooo**

"There you are, dears," Mrs. Hudson said to her tenants the next day. John was lounging in his chair on his laptop; Sherlock was at the kitchen table with his microscope. "I was looking for you yesterday."

"Lestrade called," John told her. The landlady nodded in understanding.

"Well," she said. "I just wanted to come announce the good news – I would've done yesterday after you came back, but I'm afraid it slipped my mind…"

"Good news?" John prompted, shutting his laptop and giving her his full attention. Sherlock remained unmoved, his gaze on his flesh-eating skin samples and nothing else.

"Someone _finally_ came to me with an interest in 221C! Isn't it wonderful? Of course, it was only a matter of time since I've had that man come and fix the damp – "

The abrupt scraping of a stool across the kitchen floor made both Mrs. Hudson and John jump. Sherlock stood, staring at their landlady with unmasked discontent.

"221C? There's no need for another tenant – there's just the right amount of noise now! Imagine if another person tossed in their loud dog or raucous tears in the middle of the night!"

"Olivia doesn't have a dog," Mrs. Hudson replied patiently. "And she's quite the polite and courteous girl."

"What if she's a serial killer in disguise?" Sherlock suggested, a sneer on his lips. "Or some sort of weird stalker that takes pictures of her housemates and sells them? Why wasn't I there when you decided to let a complete stranger into the building?"

"I like to think I'm good judge of character, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson frowned. "She was nice, nothing strange about her at all." She pursed her lips. "And she's had a bit of a row with her sister – she's been staying with her since she moved here from America. I'd appreciate it if you were both sensitive to her situation…"

"Of course," John nodded.

"I'll just be myself," Sherlock nodded.

Mrs. Hudson sighed exasperatedly, knowing it was as good as she was going to get, and hobbled back out of the flat.

"A new tenant," Sherlock scoffed, going over and picking up his violin from where it lay near the window. "_A new tenant_."

"Well, she might not stay long once she meets you," John smiled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to play, effectively flushing out his frustrations.

Later that same day, when the playing had finally come to an end and the detective was sitting silently on the couch with his fingers steepled in front of his mouth, a stranger stepped over the threshold of 221 Baker Street, let in by Mrs. Hudson. John was the first one to notice the new voice downstairs – Sherlock was far too immersed in his mind palace to pay much attention.

The ex-soldier, who had been tapping out the beginnings to a new addition to his blog, left the flat and went downstairs to greet the newcomer.

"Oh, John!" Mrs. Hudson beckoned him over cheerfully. "I was just about to have tea with Olivia."

"Hello," John greeted with as charming a grin as he could muster, sticking out a hand.

Olivia was a young woman – no older than twenty-seven or twenty-eight, John surmised. She had large, doe-like eyes that peeked out from underneath her side bangs. Her wavy brown hair fell just below her shoulder blades, and she was short and petite – with a slim figure akin to that of a ballerina or a pixie. _She's cute_, John concluded. _Really cute._

"Olivia Buchanan," she introduced herself, taking his proffered hand with a dimpled smile. Her voice was bubbly and bright, but not annoyingly so. "It's nice to finally meet you. Mrs. Hudson's told me so much about you and Mr. Holmes already."

"Oh, really?" John raised his eyebrows at the retreating back of Mrs. Hudson, who had scurried away into 221A, rambling on about jam to go with the scones. "Because, contrary to popular belief, we are _not_ a couple."

Olivia giggled. "I don't judge, John."

"No, we're really – not – "

"I know," she said, smiling. "I'm only teasing."

John smiled in return, about to say something else, when the thumping of someone coming down the stairs caught both of their attention. Sherlock came stalking down, his curly dark hair bouncing with each hurried step. He walked up to them and simply stared at Olivia for a long time.

She quirked her mouth to the side, her left dimple prominent with the action. "Are you just going to stare or are you going to say hello?"

"I'm going to stare," Sherlock stated plainly.

"Alright," Olivia said at length.

"Sherlock," John warned the tall man.

Sherlock began speaking like he hadn't heard him. "So, late twenties, one sister of whom you don't get along well with, your parents died when you were young – "

"_Sherlock._" John was trying to convey his apologies to Olivia with his eyes. She wasn't paying attention; her focus was riveted on the detective. She didn't look happy.

" – You engage regularly in some sort of exercise – acrobatics, I'm guessing, judging by your figure and the state of your arms, legs, and middle. Mild psychological and anger management issues – there's a nervous tic in your right hand and you're growing abnormally agitated by my analysis of your person – more so than anyone else that I – "

_SMACK_.

Sherlock's face snapped to the side, his pale eyes wide with the pain of the cheek that was rapidly blossoming a rosy, hand-shaped print.

"You're smart, and I can appreciate that," Olivia said, her face placid. Her eyes bore into Sherlock's when he turned back around. "But I'm not going to sing praises when you throw my personal information out where everyone can see. We're going to be neighbors – I don't wanna have to slap you every time you open your mouth. It was nice meeting you, John." She offered the doctor a kind smile.

And with that, she turned on her heel and disappeared into Mrs. Hudson's flat, shutting the door behind her with a little more force than was strictly necessary.

Sherlock stared at the door, and John stared at Sherlock.

The shorter man was _just _managing to keep his amused countenance in check.

Sherlock glowered at him, and then a buzz went off from his pocket. The detective pulled his phone from its resting place.

_DNA results came back. Sample was synthetic. Case reopened._

_-GL_

He stared at the tiny glowing screen, a smile steadily creeping its way onto his face, stretching his reddened cheek. "Looks like we're going back to the Yard."

"What? Why?"

"The hair was fake. On second thought, let's head to Bart's… ah, so much more to do! It was a _wig_!"

**oooOOOooo**

The restaurant was a clash of things both fancy and humbly tasteful. The carpeted floors were sporting overlapping gold squares and a gray undertone. The tables were made of dark wood with a polished finish so shiny it almost looked like overly-tinted glass. The walls were of brick, and there was one that had floor-to-ceiling windows with two-seater tables that oversaw the city of London. The establishment was on the top floor, after all.

Juliet fidgeted and tugged on the sleeves of her white sweater; they came down to the middle of her forearms. It wasn't buttoned, showing how her sage green dress was cinched just below her chest. It came down just below her knees. With a deep breath, she put one foot in front of the other and made her way to one of the two-seater tables near the window. One of the chairs was already occupied.

Settling down in the chair opposite, she found it hard – not to look into the eyes of her companion, but to look away. They were wide and brown, and she had no reason to look anywhere else, because no other sight would be as… intriguing, to say the least.

"Good afternoon, Miss Adler," James Moriarty greeted jovially.

"It is, indeed," she smiled, trying not to feel like a mouse in a snake's cage. There were already two crystal clear glasses of water on the table, and she took a sip of hers. She knew that, if she weren't so reluctant to remove her gaze far from his, she'd see that he had men and women with guns peppered around the entire establishment, masquerading as ordinary people.

"Mr. Moriarty," Juliet began. Her hand shook as she put her glass down. "My original request was to stage multiple heists in London…" she trailed off, finally looking down to fiddle with her fancy handkerchief-napkin.

His gaze, unlike hers, never wavered. It was steady and, dare she say it – _unmoving._ Completely and utterly unchanging, as if he'd either forgotten how to feel different things – or maybe it took substantial effort to switch from one emotion to the other, and he didn't feel like exerting the force.

Swallowing, she continued, because he obviously wasn't going to inquire as to where she was going with her rather obvious comment. "And I murdered someone two days ago. I know you said it might have to happen, but – but I realize that I might be a little less prepared to – to carry out the action than I originally tho – "

The cold, thin press of a blade against her knee stopped her speech in its tracks. She bit the inside of her cheek.

"Now, Miss Adler," Moriarty shook his head, still smiling cheerfully as he had when she'd first walked in. "You can't walk away when things get tough!" He said this like he was playfully chastising a child for not finishing their dinner. "If you back out now…"

The blade pressed further into her knee, and she gasped audibly and felt the sharp, stinging pain as it broke her skin. Only briefly; the blade retreated just a little ways away so that the chill of it raised goose-bumps over the surface of her other knee. She bit her lip and grabbed her handkerchief from the table, folded it, and pressed it to her small wound.

"Well, you won't live long enough to regret it." His Irish lilt was prominent.

She suppressed the dull, burning ache in the backs of her eyes. "B-but i-it was _my _idea…"

"B-but i-it was _my _resources…" he mocked.

His expression darkened, then, and rapidly. She had to consciously control her reaction to his complete one-eighty.

"This is no ordinary game, sweetheart," he shook his head slowly at her. His eyes were wide, wild and _furious_. "This isn't _PRIMARY SCHOOL._"

She jumped and surreptitiously looked around, noticing that _nobody_ was staring. Were they all… ?

"Yes." He seemed to have read her mind. "There's no backing out once you've entered, Juliet. Julie. _Ju._"

She exhaled shakily.

"Are you understanding the words leaving my tongue?" he snarled.

She nodded soberly.

Again – one-eighty. "Now, I'm glad that's settled, aren't you?" He plucked up his menu and grinned at her, all traces of his earlier rage evaporated.

_No. _"Yes, Mr. Moriarty."

She picked up her menu with the hand that wasn't applying pressure to her bleeding knee and scanned it, her stomach plummeting earnestly with each passing second.

...

**A/N: Read and review!**


	4. Chapter III

**A/N: Third chapter! Yayyyyy!**

…**.**

"Eh, Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Isn't that supposed to be at the Yard?"

The detective looked up from the golden strand of hair he was analyzing for surface substances. John was staring at it with furrowed eyebrows.

"No," said Sherlock. "This is the other one."

"The other – there was more than one?"

Sherlock had already gone back to his sharp scrutiny. "Yes."

"And you didn't – ah, never mind."

"I wasn't going to."

"Going to what?"

"_Mind_," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John sighed. Molly Hooper, donned typically in a sweater, khakis, and her long, white lab coat, scuttled in. In her hands were two disposable coffee cups. She set one down next to Sherlock, scanning his focused form and, concluding that he wasn't going to look up anytime soon, shuffled away to the other side of the countertop and sipped at her own hot beverage.

"Hullo, John," she greeted.

"Hi, Molly," John waved. "How've you been?"

"Well enough." She took another sip. "Met a guy; he works up in the maternity ward. He's really nice." She glanced over at Sherlock.

"Oh, well good on you," John said, genuinely.

Then, out of the blue, the door opened with enough force to make a _bang _against the wall. John and Molly jumped, but Sherlock merely looked up in interest.

Olivia came striding in, her brown hair mussed. Her eyes were red and there was a bandage wrapped around her knee.

"Um," Molly blinked. Then, she said quite firmly, "You don't have clearance to be back here."

Olivia was momentarily flummoxed. Then, she scoffed. "And he does?" She jerked her thumb toward Sherlock.

John shrugged when she looked in his direction, as if to say, _'Point taken.'_

"W-well, he's working for the police," Molly told her, losing confidence quickly as her eyes cast themselves downward.

Olivia gave her a blank stare, and then turned to Sherlock.

The brunette heaved a deep sigh. "I need your help."

"That much is obvious," said Sherlock, slowly. "Care to elaborate?"

A muscle was jumping in her jaw. She glanced over at Molly, who was staring at her anxiously. "Not here." She looked around and seemed to actually realize that she was in a lab. "Um, when you're done here, I gu – "

"I was done fifteen minutes ago," Sherlock cut across, shrugging on his long, black coat. Both John and Molly shot him looks of combined confusion and incredulity. "Let's head to Baker Street, then, shall we?"

He grabbed his coffee and the plastic baggie that held the synthetic hairs, sweeping out of the lab with his collar turned up and no more words uttered.

"Well, see you later, Molly," John offered her a quick smile before scurrying after his eccentric friend. The pathologist waved, nonplussed.

He heard Olivia's quick footsteps behind him, and sure enough, she appeared by his side mere seconds later. He glanced at her, but she wasn't looking at him. She was staring at her shoes.

She looked… lost, for lack of a better word. Even her eyes didn't know where to go; they switched from staring at her left sneaker to her right sneaker and then back again. Her hands would rub nervously on her jeans, and then try to wriggle into her pockets – but the pockets were too small, so they would wring together, and then the process started over again.

He wondered what was wrong and, not for the first time, wished that he could guess from the most benign detail what exactly was causing her distress.

**ooOOoo**

"You have two minutes. Speak." The detective placed his hands together, as if in prayer, and put them up to his lips.

"_Sherlock_," John murmured.

Juliet looked down at her hands, taking a deep breath and covering her face with them. She shouldn't have come – she knew that, if she didn't plead her case the right way, she would be sent to prison. And that wasn't on the top of her list of to-do things.

Sherlock Holmes was not a fool. It was the cause for both her relief and dread – his little show the day before had scared her far more than she cared to admit. What if he'd gone further? Did he think while he spoke, his lips only moving as fast his brain produced information? Or had he known, from the very start, exactly who she was?

No. He would've called the police by then.

"I apologize, for yesterday," she began, staring directly into the icy eyes of the renowned detective. "You were rude, but I shouldn't have slapped you. I need your help, but…" she glanced at John quickly, but turned back to the detective. "It's a bit illegal."

John's eyes narrowed, but Sherlock leaned forward, his gaze suddenly more intense.

"You do realize that you're speaking to someone who consults with the police on a regular basis?"

"Yes."

"And you realize that, should you ask me to assist you in a matter that I cannot help with, you're probably going to be arrested?"

She swallowed. "Yes."

He grinned. "Well, then – I change my mind. You have _three _minutes."

John turned to his friend, his eyes wide in shock and disbelief. "Sherlock! She – "

"Let's be open-minded, shall we, John?"

"Hark who's talking!" John exclaimed, a bit angrily. "You won't even go to the store for milk!"

"Can I start, yet," Juliet drawled, sardonically, cursing the shake infused in her words. "Or are you two having a domestic?"

That shut them both up.

"Thank you." She took a deep breath. "Okay, here it goes… I work for a man…"

And she trailed off.

What was she _doing_? This situation _was _entirely her own fault! She was going to jail, she knew it – but maybe, just maybe, there was a way to get out of this. She'd tell them to never mind – she'd escape through the window!

But… she _could_ just… lie?

"At first, I was just doing little things in exchange for sums of money to keep myself afloat." She cleared her throat, managing to make her eyes watery with tears that weren't entirely fake. "But then, he threatened my life and my sister's so that I would do things on a grander scale. That's why I had a row with her – she wanted me to stay at her house, but I needed to leave and I couldn't tell her why to keep her safe."

Yeah, right. But Sherlock and John seemed to be taking in her every word in solemn curiosity – well, John was. Sherlock was just listening in plain curiosity.

"What do you mean by little things?" he suddenly asked.

Juliet didn't miss a beat. "Like, working odd jobs and leaving the doors unlocked at night. Snagging the occasional computer or television or spare auto part. And it was strange, because he never used any of it, as far as I know." Another necessary add-in. If these two ever came into contact with Moriarty, they would know immediately if she was lying if she didn't tell them a convincing story presently.

Sherlock nodded, and then gestured for her to continue.

"After he threatened me, I – " she opened her satchel and got out the plastic bag she'd brought. "I started using this to stage my crimes." She let her disguise tumble out of the bag.

John stared at the disguise. Sherlock stared at her.

"And…"

His eyes were pale and piercing.

"And…"

_Geez_. They were _glacial_. It made her hands sweat in a way that she hadn't since the aftermath of dining with Jim, and that was certainly a one-off situation.

She sensed no immediate danger with this man, and yet… his eyes were almost x-raying her. It was unnerving. It made her insides squirm. And she'd had to lie many times, being on the run in the States. This one man, not nearly as intimidating as any other she'd faced, was making her feet quake in her boots. It was equal amounts concerning, humiliating, and something else she couldn't quite name.

" – and, up until recently, I wouldn't have told a soul." She wrung her hands. "But I never wanted to murder _anybody_ – I panicked. And now it's all a big mess and I didn't want to go to the police, because they might just arrest me flat out. But it wasn't my fault – I was just protecting us."

Sherlock hummed and leaned back in his chair. John stared, his mouth open and his eyebrows furrowed. Finally, he seemed to gather his wits.

"What happened to your knee?" he asked. "It looks like you wrapped it yourself."

She felt her cheeks warm. Did it really look that bad? "He stabbed me."

"Who?" John prodded further.

She sighed. She didn't know if it was entirely safe to just go about spouting his name hither and thither. "My employer."

"What's his name?"

Juliet bit the inside of her cheek, as both of them were boring their eyes into her now. Could she tell them? How could she, without being killed or looking ridiculous? The latter was the more desirable option, to be honest.

"I can't say it aloud," she shook her head. "But, look."

She drew an 'M' in the air. Sherlock stiffened. She smirked. _Excellent. He already knows._

_O._

_R._

_I – _

The sound of glass shattering pierced the dead silence around the flat, and a searing, excruciating pain exploded in her stomach. She felt herself slide from her chair. She clutched at her stomach, feeling the wetness there. She opened and closed her mouth, desperately scrabbling at the breath of air she had last inhaled. She heard someone yelling, and what sounded like a woman screaming – but it sounded far away. Like she was underwater.

Her life didn't flash before her eyes. No, instead she saw one thing – one _image _that left her in more want for oxygen.

Sharp grey eyes, smiling sweetly at her, but dripping with true concern and condescension. A blood-boiling hatred rose in her veins – or was that the pain?

Dark spots clouded her vision, like tinted bubbles. They grew closer together, effectively cutting off her sight and submerging her in complete darkness.

**ooOOoo**

**A/N: Short, I know. I'll update again soon.**


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